'ok, what are you so excited about then?' asks faathumaafulhu. we've been on the phone for half an hour and she's already said 'to be fair' a million times.

'i'm gonna have the short rib at patio with sampa,' i tell her.

'really? that's what you're excited about?'

'you don't understand!' i exclaim. 'everybody's who's ever had it has raved about it. RAVED. and it's free!'

'pathetic,' she yawns. 'i'm gonna sleep, it's almost 9pm here, and surf’s up tomorrow. enjoy your stupid meal.'

my sister is in bali, that goddamned island all the gen z travellers from the maldives seem unable to get over. gimme nepal any day of the week.

i hang up, take a shower and dress up for the night cos sampaafulhu is dressed all pretty too.

'finally,' i tell her as we're getting out of the lift. 'you're about to taste the fruits of my modest success as a critic of note.'

'more like the MEAT of your success,' she replies, walking towards the cab.

good one, sampa.

as we step out by rainbow central, sampa goes 'oho.'

she's never been, poor woman. i realise how very hungry i am - i haven't eaten all day. sampaafulhu's belly lets out a groan. oh boy. i hope we don't have to wait.

but we DO! the drinks come - ginger lemonade, and we sip on them for a while. sampaafulhu thinks it's much too sour.

'yeah,' i agree. 'it could use a touch of salt and some honey. tone down on the lime.'

'not a great start,' sampaafulhu shakes her head.

thankfully, the meal arrives before TOO long. not just the main course but dessert as well, funnily enough. we eye the meat like vultures and pounce on it the moment the server leaves.

'oh, dear LORD!' i exclaim almost immediately after shoving a forkful in my mouth.

'mmm MMM,' says sampaafulhu, chewing, her eyes closed.

'it is SO good!'

'VERY good.'

'it's a fucking MIRACLE!' i say.

and i really can't believe it. like i've cooked steaks not too long ago, and fairly well if i may add, but the beefiness of this hunk of meat exists in a whole new universe of flavour.

incredible.

'the mash, man', says sampa. 'have you tried the mash?'

it is perfect, not overly anything, just beautiful, rich, starchy potato and butter flavours. i haven't had mash like this in recent times. and even the little rocket salad, with its sweet and tangy dressing is a thing of joy. everything about this dish surpasses our collective imagination. my GOD!

i am too full to tuck into the french toast but sampaafulhu tries it anyway.

'unbelievable,' she says shaking her head. 'i'm having more.'

'aren't you full?' i ask her.

'neiy jaaga mi furanee,' she responds.

she can only manage half and we take the rest home.

at our kanmathee store where we stop to buy some tp, the chubby seytu goes:

'muizz is a hiyalhu. no one knows what he's doing. not even adhurey. can you believe it?'

‘too hiyalhu?' i say, paying up.

‘dhen maa sakaraathiyyaa baalaanee dho? like we did with ibu,’ says the seytu matter of factly.

as we walk into the building, i ask sampaafulhu: am i imagining things or was it really THAT good?

‘the beef and mash was,’ she says.

‘don’t you mean ‘were’?’

‘fine, they WERE. they really were.’